“I didn’t do so bad,” he said.
To Bill, the brief half-surly answer was natural enough. Sometimes fellows bragged about their winnings, sometimes they had reasons for not letting anybody know they’d had a win. It occurred to him that a shiftless character like Lolly might owe money to several men who would be at the gaming school. If they heard that he had been lucky at the races they would demand repayment.
“We didn’t get any racing yesterday,” said Bill heavily. “The murder, yer know.”
“Aye, I heard,” said Lolly, trying to be casual.
“We was on our way,” Bill continued, “but the coppers looked out for us and turned us back when we was halfway there. They didn’t make no mistake. Picked us out of a proper procession of motors. The cops can gen’rally find yer when they want yer.”
“Yers,” Lolly agreed, though he did not like the last remark at all. This talk of murder and the police was depressing him. If it went on, it would ruin his day.
Bill thought that he was receiving willing attention. He warmed to his subject. Opening his huge hands he said: “See these? If I could get hold o’ one a-them murderers he wouldn’t live ter stand trial. I’d throttle the sod.”
In spite of his size and his immense strength, his expression-if it could be called an expression-was like that of a small boy trying to be fierce. But Lolly was not studying his face: be was listening to the very real anger in the rough growling voice.
“I’d like ter take all the four of ’em an’ pull the’r necks out like cock chickens at Chris’mus,” said Bill. “Cicely were one o’ the nicest, straightest lasses in Granchester. An’ young Colin is a real good lad.”
Lolly swallowed rather noisily. “It makes yer feel that way,” he admitted, and inwardly he also fumed with anger against the man who had actually killed Cicely Wainwright. But for that, he thought, everything would have been lovely: nothing at all to worry about. But murder… The police never gave up on a murder.
“Pickin’ on a young filly like that!” Bill went on. “Gus should a-sent me wi’ the money. I’d a-showed ’em. I’d a paralyzed ’em.”
Lolly looked sidelong at those hands with fingers like bananas and shuddered slightly. Surreptitiously he felt in his pocket to make sure that his razor was readily accessible. It was a purely nervous move, because he knew that Bill could never be subtle enough to make an indirect accusation. Bill did not suspect him.
The taxi stopped at a place where there were no banks on each side of the road. The rough grass verge gave the driver room enough to reverse his vehicle and turn back to Fly End. The passengers alighted, and Lolly paid the fare. He graciously waved an acknowledgment of the driver’s thanks for the tip, and followed Bill over the drywall onto the open moorland.
The two men climbed gradually as they walked over the rough ground, making their way around a hill which was shaped like a flattish cone. As they went they were observed by a man who sat in the heather at the apex of the cone. He might have been there to enjoy the fresh air and the view. He had a pair of binoculars.
On the other side of the hill, Bill and Lolly came to an outcrop of huge black rocks, a common enough feature in that district. Near the rocks there was another “crow,” who knew them and spoke to them. They went among the rocks and entered a little grassy hollow. In the center of the hollow there was a large patch of black peat hag, trodden hard and flat.
There were about sixty men in the hollow, and they were standing two or three deep in an irregular ring around the patch of trodden ground. There was as wide an assortment of types as might be seen at any other sporting event. There were pale mill workers and muscular miners. There was a farmer or two, and some ruddy, horny-handed men who looked like outdoors laborers. There were butchers, bakers and bookmakers. There were dressy men and men in cloth caps with colored kerchiefs tied round their necks.
Doug Savage, pot-landlord of the Prodigal Son Inn, was there. Laurie Lovett was there, and so was Clogger Roach. Three inveterate gamblers.
In the middle of the ring a fresh-faced young fellow was saying: “I’ll head ’em for four,” and there were four one-pound notes in the hands of the sturdy, red-faced man who stood beside him.
“Has he done it twice?” Bill Bragg inquired, and the reply was an envious “That’s right, chum,” from a shabby, gaunt, colorless man who looked as if he ought to be spending his cash-in-hand on a good meal. Evidently the challenger had started with a one-pound bet. He had won twice, leaving stakes and winnings in the ring.
“I’ll have a nicker on,” said Bill, making up his mind quickly, and feeling proudly resolute because he had done so. He handed a note to the red-faced man, who took it and nodded in acknowledgment. The colorless man, after a moment of obviously painful indecision, risked a pound himself. Then Lolly Jakes and Doug Savage stepped forward together, each offering two pounds to the stakeholder.
The stakeholder, whose remuneration largely depended upon tips from the day’s winners, wanted to make no enemies. “Now then,” he said with a dry grin. “Whose money shall I take?”
“I was first,” said Doug.
“Nay, I’m damned if you were,” Lolly retorted.
The two men eyed each other; measured each other. They were both burly men; the innkeeper clean and almost dapper in appearance, the other carelessly dressed. The onlookers watched them with interest.
Nearly all gamblers have ideas about the fickleness of luck. Any small incident might affect luck or point the way to the avoidance of misfortune. And one lucky bet might change the whole day’s fortunes. Therefore it became important to both Doug and Lolly that they should make that particular bet. It seemed to each of them that the other was blocking his way to an important initial success.
“Split it. Have a quid apiece on,” the stakeholder suggested.
“Fair enough,” Lolly agreed.
“I was first,” said Doug stubbornly.
“Spin a coin for it,” somebody advised.
The disputants shook their heads. Such a course might put a hoodoo on the bet.
“Well, do summat!” the challenger snapped, because he was afraid that the delay might be allowing his luck to change.
“A quid apiece,” said Lolly, and there was a general murmur of approval for this compromise.
Doug shook his head obstinately. He thought that he should make the bet. To split with Lolly Jakes, whom he disliked, seemed as if it would be an unlucky thing to do.
But he could see that Lolly’s reasonable offer had popular support, and the deadlock had to be broken. “I was first,” he said sulkily. “But go on. Put your brass on seeing as you’re so keen. We’ll see what happens.”
Grinning, Lolly handed his two pounds to the stakeholder. Then the challenger stepped out into the middle of the ring and held out his right hand palm upward. The forefinger and the long finger were straight, held close together. The other two fingers were bent, and held by the thumb. The “putter-on” carefully placed two halfpennies, “heads” upward, on the outstretched fingers. The challenger threw, and the two coins went almost exactly straight up into the air, spinning side by side, and to the naked eye spinning in perfect unison.
It was a bad throw. The coins showed one “head” and one “tail” when they landed on the ground. It was a void toss. The challenger threw again, and the coins showed two tails. He had lost his four pounds. With evident satisfaction Bill Bragg, Lolly, and the colorless man stepped forward to collect their winnings.
As Lolly held out his hand for his money, Bill noticed that his fingers were stained green. Because they were dirty they did not seem to be quite the same color as Gus Hawkins’, but green they undoubtedly were. Bill wondered foggily about that, but in spite of his visit to Hallam and the green-handed thief he had seen there, his childlike mind did not perceive any suspicious connection.